


One good turn deserves my dying

by LoomisCrowley



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Brock Rumlow feels, I Don't Even Know, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Ice Cream, M/M, Muteness, Not Canon Compliant, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Song Lyrics, Unhealthy Relationships, Unresolved Emotional Tension, bottom!Rumlow, this is a lot shorter than i intended
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-06
Updated: 2014-10-06
Packaged: 2018-02-20 02:56:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2412401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoomisCrowley/pseuds/LoomisCrowley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Steve has taken an injured, slightly PTSD'd post-CA:TWS Brock Rumlow into his (very secret, very intimate) custody. He continues his missions and then he comes home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One good turn deserves my dying

**Author's Note:**

> Post Winter Solider. This is movie divergent, and has nothing to do with the Comics. It's also completely vague, indulgent, irrational, and possibly riddled with errors.
> 
> Also a final submission for Rumlow Week on tumblr.

_I wish I had a reason_  
 _My flaws are open season_  
 _For this, I gave up trying_  
 **_One good turn deserves my dying_ **  
  
_You don't need to bother_  
 _I don't need to be_  
 _I'll keep slipping farther_  
 _But once I hold on I'll never live down my deceit_

_-_  

Brock still hasn't said a word. 

It had been almost two months now. 

Steve still doesn't know what he's doing.

He knows it's wrong, in every moral, logical capacity. He knows it's foolish. He knows it won't end well. But still, here he is. Indulging. And he doesn't know why. Well, not entirely.

On the list of things he does know:

"I miss you when I'm not here," he says softly, carefully. Somewhat morosely.

Brock doesn't say anything in return, as expected, but he does pull himself slowly up onto the kitchen counter beside Steve. Slowly, because he is still healing. Beside Steve, because that's simply where he has been for the past 60 days - give or take. Steve's gaze flickers down to the former Hydra agent's arms - leaner now from lack of exertion (everything is leaner), still mottled with the remnants of burns and other surface wounds. Ghosts.

Steve has placed his shield by the door, his tactical gear tucked away in the bedroom closet. _The_ bedroom, because his room isn't only _his_ anymore. Not really. He's showered and changed. Stripped away the battle. And now here he is. He always comes back to this.

Brock lifts his eyes to where the hem of Steve's white t-shirt brushes his collarbone. They linger there as he takes his bottom lip under his teeth, thoughtful, seeming to consider the weight of the words. What Steve would give for him to voice some of those thoughts. Any of them. Anything at all.

He sighs and turns to the fridge, extracting a pint of ice cream - vanilla - imagines the myriad of snide jokes the Brock Rumlow of past would have lined up for the flavor of choice. Probably something about apple pie. Sexual ineptitude.

He comes back with two spoons, thinks better of it, and places one back tacitly in the silverware drawer. Brock watches him carefully, almost dutifully, as he spoons the thick creamy substance out of the chilled container. He hands the loaded spoon to Brock without hesitation. Brock savors his share and then reaches for the container, dragging out another serving for Steve. He doesn't bother taking the spoon back, letting Brock feed him the mouthful. This is almost casual, domestic; a well-practiced dance. It is familiar, it is comforting. It is everything it should not be. 

Once Steve is finished Brock drops the spoon in the sink and his gaze to the floor. He slides back down off the counter top, bare feet colliding almost silently with linoleum.

He is a few inches shorter than Steve. It had never been so apparent before.

It doesn't seem to bother Brock, though, who is now hooking a finger beneath the waistband of Steve's sweatpants and tugging insistently in the direction of _the_ bedroom. There's a distinct blankness across his features where Steve could have imagined a cocky smirk.

When they get closer Steve presses Brock against the door, teeth finding the sensitive skin of the other man's neck.

"Talk to me," he mouths, in between sharp nips. He can practically feel Brock glaring at him, the man's brow knit in irritation as eyes flutter shut under the treatment.

Brock retaliates by shoving his hand all the way into those sweats, somewhat cold fingers wrapping around Steve's already hard member, squeezing as if in refusal to his request.

Steve moans, hands rising to cup Brock by the jaw, licking into his mouth and erasing any traces of vanilla.

He abandons the sharp, lightly stubbled lines of Brock's face in order to pull his shirt (one of Steve's own shirts) over his head, hands tugging into dark, lush hair as he navigates Brock over to the bed. He's still surprised at the way the former Strike captain allows himself to be manhandled, practically arranged and declothed to Steve's liking.

But then, Steve doesn't really know a lot about Brock's bedroom habits outside _this_ bedroom. From before.

Steve doesn't really know Brock Rumlow much at all.

On the list of things he does know:

Brock arches his back, digs his nails into the sheets when Steve probes him with warm wet fingers.

Steve decided about three weeks after he brought a battered, bruised, and bewilderingly mute Brock here that this was his favorite thing: watching the man fall apart at his whim. Trembling, vulnerable, _furious_ under his touch. 

He positively _aches_ to cry out when Steve enters him - biting down on his lip again, this time hard enough to draw blood. He throws his head to one side or the other just to avoid Steve's steady gaze. Anything to remain soundless.

"Come on," Steve groans insistently, large hands tightening around Brock's hips as he settles in deep, to the hilt.

Brock is panting, producing nearly audible gasps, but stubbornly silent otherwise. He takes mercy on the sheets and rakes his nails down Steve's chest instead, leaving pink, raised trails in their wake.

"I know you want to," Steve mumbles, his strokes slow and steady. He's aiming for his lover's sweet spot but not quite hitting the mark - brushing over the nerves, feathering it in a way that make Brock's thighs quiver against his sides. "I know you can."

They continue this for moments that seem to stretch into an eternity - Brock grabbing at Steve's shoulders, Steve moving at an agonizingly patient gait until Brock is wilting, skin moist and hot to the touch, swallowing around a nearly choking desire.

But still Steve cruelly does not touch his weeping swollen length. He doesn't thrust any faster. He doesn't stop begging, _demanding_.

Brock alternates tightening his grip around Steve's neck and pushing at his chest as if to escape the sweet torment building in him like a tidal wave of betrayal. He realizes in terror that he doesn't know what will break first, his mouth or his dick, and then his mouth decides for him:

"Kill me," he finally rasps, voice broken and strained from months of disuse.

Steve, in apparent shock, almost stills his hips, grappling at the sound he's been waiting, _desperate,_ to hear for so long. He shakes his head vehemently, thrusting roughly a few more times, Brock keening at the sudden violent presses.

"Too easy for you," Steve murmurs, placing his forehead against Brock's and rolling his hips fully into the tiny bundle of nerves. He watches with little relish as Brock yelps and spills over the precipice, his own damnation not far behind.

"I'd kill you," Brock whispers, after Steve pulls out of him. As they drift, fuzzy and recklessly warm in the aftermath. 

 _If our roles were reversed. After the things I've done to you (and yours)._  

It goes unsaid, but the unspoken weight of it rings in Steve's ears as he topples into exhausted sleep.

He wakes as he always does, short hours later with darkness still engulfing the room, Brock tangled around him like so many suffocating limbs. He pulls away. Brock doesn't wake, doesn't even stir in his sleep. He never does. Steve wonders if he dreams, doesn't want to consider the contents of his nightmares.

On the list of things Steve does consider:

Locking up the knife block in case Brock decides to make good on his claim. But he doesn't touch it.

Instead, he wipes up the melted ice cream on the kitchen counter, places the pint back into the freezer. Having been thawed and refrozen it will taste off, but still distractingly sweet the next time they open it.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Lyrics from 'Bother' by Stone Sour. All cliches aside, I found the song just kind of annoyingly perfect for Steve and Brock.
> 
> Dedicated to all other writers not afraid to depict a somewhat softer, more complicated and layered side to Brock Rumlow. I don't know. It happens.


End file.
